


The Ghosts of Christmas, Present

by Casey679



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bossy Dean Winchester, Bottom Sam Winchester, Christmas, Christmas Angst, Christmas Smut, Dean Winchester Needs Sam Winchester, Drunk Sam Winchester, Happy Ending, M/M, Richard Siken is writing about Sam and Dean, SPN J2 Secret Santa, Sam Winchester Needs a Hug, Shotgunning, Stanford Era (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22000294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casey679/pseuds/Casey679
Summary: At 4:36 am, Sam is just now pouring his aching body into bed. He's achy and sleep-deprived, and if he had the energy he'd be panicking a little because two of his three managers have asked if he can work overtime tomorrow. If he skips the downtime between each job, he should just be able to juggle it. But Lizzie at the bar tonight was sneezing through her wait shift and even though he's got his flu shot, the last thing he wants is to spend Christmas alone, miserable and feverish in an empty dorm room. Alone and miserable is more than enough, thank you. Just as he clicks the light off and the room goes dark, something at the foot of his roommate Steve's bed catches his eye. Just for a moment, he sees Dean standing there, leaning against the wall and looking at him. He flips the light back on frantically, but Dean's gone.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 35
Kudos: 171
Collections: 2019 Supernatural & CWRPF Holiday Exchange





	The Ghosts of Christmas, Present

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisroadsofar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisroadsofar/gifts).



> This is a gift for 0ntheroadsofar as part of the 2019 Supernatural & CWRPF Holiday Exchange. I hope you enjoy it! Thanks to @Phoenix1966 and @Nisaki for providing cheerleading, company and beta reads when my eyes were too tired to go on. It's a better story thanks to you two!

Sam should know by now: There's no such thing as a happy Christmas when you're a Winchester. He’s at Stanford, exhausted and alone and miserable, and it’s his own damn fault.

The exhaustion comes from taking three jobs for the holidays because why not – the perks of being a college orphan with nowhere to go at Christmas ( _see:_ alone), no one to hang out with ( _see:_ miserable), and a burning need to _not_ think about either of those facts ( _see:_ his own damn fault). Excluding all that, it's a great plan. As it turns out, working five hours at the gift wrapping station at Macy's, followed by four hours as a barback at Tiajuana Mama's Bar and Grill (and thank god that bars that can't spell-check their own names aren't likely to even check for fake IDs) and then another five hours as a seasonal evening stocker at Target doesn't leave you much time for brooding. Or sleeping. Or anything, really.

At 4:36 am, Sam is just now pouring his aching body into bed. He's achy and sleep-deprived, and if he had the energy he'd be panicking a little because two of his three managers have asked if he can work overtime tomorrow. If he skips the downtime between each job, he should _just_ be able to juggle it. But Lizzie at the bar tonight was sneezing through her wait shift and even though he's got his flu shot, the last thing he wants is to spend Christmas alone, miserable _and_ feverish in an empty dorm room. Alone and miserable is more than enough, thank you.

Just as he clicks the light off and the room goes dark, something at the foot of his roommate Steve's bed catches his eye. Just for a moment, he sees Dean standing there, leaning against the wall and looking at him. He flips the light back on frantically, but Dean's gone.

Dean was never there. In fact, he's probably holed up with some pretty waitress who's taken him home for the night as an early Christmas present to herself. Sam's heart aches slightly at the thought.

He shakes his head and curses, flipping the light back off and letting his head fall heavily down onto his pillow. He's lonely and tired, and his eyes are playing tricks on him. There's still three more shopping days 'til Christmas, and Dean's not here.

* * *

The next day, Sam's forgotten all about what he thought he saw, but he can't shake the feeling that he's being watched. Which is patently absurd, because of _course_ he's being watched, he's working retail at Christmas and there are tons of impatient shoppers around demanding to get their packages wrapped before their lunch hour is over. But when he looks around, the one thing he's sure of is that it's none of the customers.

Weirdly, it's not a threatening feeling. It feels friendly, almost comforting, in a way that makes him not even feel like grimacing when a shopper asks him to re-wrap their gift three times because they don't like the way the pattern lines up on it. It's enough to erase the melancholy that's lingered around him all December, like a concentrated beam of _everything's okay_ straight to his heart. The feeling persists all the way through his bar shift (it doesn't hurt that Lizzie tells Josh that Sam came straight there without getting his lunch, and when a sandwich somehow makes its way onto Sam's next tray full of glasses, he eats it gratefully), and even into his evening at Target.

That's not to say it's not a weird shift, though. It's probably the exhaustion talking, but Sam is butterfingers most of the night. Fortunately, he's restocking the paper goods section, so it's more of an annoyance than a tragedy when he doesn't push the rolls of Bounty far enough on the shelves and they topple off. Repeatedly. Like, _what-the-fuck_ levels of repeatedly. He'd blame it on some of the pranksters on the crew, but none of them are on that night. It's one of the reasons Sam's doing overtime, in fact.

The store is super-cold, though – apparently, they're saving on heat by keeping the temperatures low when the shoppers aren't there – so if it isn't just his fingers being stiff and clumsy in the cold, it might be it's some weird law of physics involving uneven plastic shrinkage or something. Sam's too tired to figure it out.

The warm, watched-over feeling disappears in a fugue of exhaustion by the time his shift is over, however. He drags himself back to his room out of sheer grit and determination, only to discover that the dorms have apparently got rats, because the cabinet where he stores his food is open and some of the stuff in it has been pulled out and scattered. (It can't have been an earthquake, he would have felt it, so – rats.) He stuffs the packets of ramen and tinfoil Pop Tart packs back where they belong, looking for tiny teeth marks as he goes, but they're all intact. To his surprise, there's a bag of mini-marshmallows among them; he doesn't remember buying any marshmallows, but Steve _did_ leave him his food at the end of the semester, so…

There's a smattering of tea bags, instant coffee packets and hot cocoa powder in the mess as well, probably also Steve's. Sam looks at them for a second and hesitates, his hand hovering over the packets, but then he looks at the marshmallows and thinks, _fuck it, it's Christmas_. He drags his blanket into the floor's community lounge and heats up a mug of water for his hot chocolate in the microwave. Even better, the awesome warm feeling is back again, and if he closes his eyes, he can imagine that he's back in one of any of the many houses and hotel rooms they stayed in growing up, and Dean is just a room away. He just has to not open his eyes, and it can be true.

Sam falls asleep in a big stuffed chair in the lounge, his dreams flavored with marshmallow-filled hot chocolate.

* * *

"-mmy, you're killin' me here, kid, c'mon, you gotta wake up or you're gonna be late, right? Right."

Someone's talking at him. It's Dean, which means he's late for school. But he's so tired… "Five mo' minnits, kay?" he mumbles and rolls over.

"-buddy, five minutes _was_ ten minutes ago." There's a sharp poke to his shoulder and a voice loud in his ear. "SAMMY!"

Sam sits up, yawning, eyes still closed. "'m up, I'm up, don't be a dick, De–"

_Wait a minute… Dean?_

Reality floods back in. School's out for the semester. He's not late for school. He's late for–

Sam's eyes fly open and he half falls, half staggers out of the chair, fighting his way free of the blanket that's somehow become wrapped around him. He's alone in the community lounge (it's break, of course he is) and he's _not_ late for work yet but if he doesn't get his ass in gear he _will_ be, because he got sloppy last night and fell asleep out of range of his alarm. Some part of his brain must have remembered, though, and dreamed up Dean to wake him up.

There will never be a time when he doesn't want to wake up to Dean.

He doesn't regret the hot cocoa, though, even if he's going to have a crick in his neck from sleeping in the chair. The chocolate was nice, and it had made him feel just like it did sometimes growing up, when Dad was due back late that night from a hunt and he and Dean stayed up to wait for him. Dean would never say that's what they were doing, because he didn't want to make Sam worry. Instead he'd try to make Sam feel like everything was okay with the dumb hot chocolate and marshmallows, like Sam wasn't smart enough to figure out what he was doing. The funny thing was, as long as he had Dean and the hot chocolate, everything _was_ okay.

Sam had been hoping to start a load of laundry before he left for work, but that'll have to wait until tonight, which, _ugh_ , but it is what it is, he supposes. He uses the time-tested sniff test to find which work clothes will get him the least glares from his co-workers. At least it's California, which means his bar shirt only smells like beer and not cigarettes. Then he's off with a travel mug in one hand, his backpack in the other, and an unopened packet of Cherry Pop Tarts dangling from his teeth as he locks his dorm and dashes to catch his bus.

It doesn't occur to him until he's on the bus what kind of funny tricks the mind can play on you when you're still in that twilight area between sleep and the waking world. For just a few minutes before his eyes opened, while dream Dean was still firm in his head, he could swear he smelled his brother's cologne.

_Maybe it's a sign._

Maybe he should call him.

During his break, Sam gets as far as dialing the first three digits of Dean's number on his phone before he chickens out. _What if he doesn't answer? What if he answers and just hangs up? …What if their_ dad _answers instead of Dean?_

_What if_ , he thinks sourly. What if he just gets his head squared away instead and gets through the holidays the way he did last year, by himself, as fast as possible, maybe with a bottle of whiskey. Yeah, what _about_ that.

Whatever jovial spirit of Christmas kept him company yesterday is gone today. In its place is a wave of homesickness that he hasn't felt since the third week of his freshman year – the week when the glow of rebellion and freedom had tarnished enough to let the fact that he was well and truly on his own settle in around his heart with a chill. Too much thinking about Dean, he decides as he hikes over to Tiajuana Mama's. He just needs to focus on something else.

Of course, that's like trying not to think about pink elephants. More than once, he wonders how it would feel to see Dean's face in the crowd, and his mind plays cruel tricks in response, even thinking he _has_ seen him only to take a second look and realize the hair or eyes or build or smile is wrong. After the third such disappointment, Sam keeps his head down and tries not to look at the crowd at all as he clears tables and washes dishes. Fortunately, the happy hour rush is packed with people all driven to drink with their own reasons for hating the holiday season, so he can do just that.

_Head down and keep moving_ gets him through the rest of his shift and onto his third job of the day. It works just as well there, if not better – in fact, it ends up working a little _too_ well, when Sharon, his Target shift manager, sends him home early because his work is done. The overtime would have been preferable to the compliments, but… at least it gives Sam time to do his laundry.

On a whim, he strips his sheets and himself as well, then throws on a robe and drags the whole load down to the laundry room and takes over both machines. It's a little weird walking around the dorms without anything on under his robe, and he can't help but feel a little bit like a flasher. But there's really no one around to notice or complain – just a handful of international students who are smart enough to be out having fun. Sam's the only one at Stanford dumb enough to be spending the Friday night before Christmas Eve getting his underwear in order.

Like everything else today, doing laundry reminds him of Dean – weeks stuck in the same town while their dad was on a hunt where'd they spend some of the time training and some of the time being teenage boys, and then cram a month's worth of cleaning into the twelve hours between the time their dad called to say he was on his way back and the time he arrived. Dean would drop Sam off at the laundromat in his rattiest clothing, usually whatever pair of shorts he was on the verge of outgrowing and one of Dean's hole-filled t-shirts. He'd stay at the laundromat, doing his homework while washing and folding everything _just so_ , and Dean would scrub the house down, toss the empties and make sure all the gear was in order.

He was pretty sure Dean divvied up the chores that way for the sheer enjoyment of seeing Sam humiliate himself wearing that outfit and enduring all the giggling girls who found reasons to stop into the laundromat. Dean's dirty little secret, tormenting his little brother even as he tried to get him a girlfriend. But Sam had never minded wearing the outfit as long as Dean was around, had in fact frayed at the edges of the shorts until they rode up just below the point of indecency, and that was _Sam's_ dirty little secret.

Sam brings along one of the books he's supposed to be reading over the break, poet Richard Siken's _Crush_ , but gives up five lines into "Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out." _Every morning the same big and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out "You will be alone always and then you will die."_ He skims a little further, looking for any better line to stop on, but it just gets worse. _Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud._ Well, at least he'd had the sense to get out before making a mistake of that magnitude. _You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back._

Yeah, okay, he thinks, that's more than enough of that. He shoves the book back in the pocket of his robe, pulling the cloth tighter around himself and dreading what it's going to be like dissecting it in class next semester. _Sorry, prof, that's my non-existent love life vivisected on the page there._

Sam sets an alarm on his watch, closes his eyes, and lets himself doze on and off to the warm, rhythmic thumping of the dryers, thinking about faded, frayed denim and laundromats past. When it's all done, he drops everything unceremoniously back into the basket and lugs it back upstairs, vaguely contemplating another hot chocolate before bed.

Sam hip-checks his unlocked door to open it, stepping in backward and swinging the basket around before kicking the door shut behind him.

And Dean is there.

Dean is sprawled out on Steve's bed, sprawled out like he owns the place, legs crossed and hands behind his head. And get this – _Sam can see the bed through him_.

"Dean–" he says, shocked, and then his brains puts all the pieces together, the cold, the dreams, the feeling of being watched – and he says, thickly, "you can't be dead. It's _Christmas_."

* * *

Dean smirks. "Yeah, well, glad _you_ think so, but apparently the universe thought otherwise."

Sam sits down heavily on the bed, laundry basket dropped and forgotten on the floor. _Don't hyperventilate_ , he tells himself sternly, looking down at his spilled clothing and forcing himself to name each. _Shirt, shirt, jeans, sock, underwear, sock, towel_. It works – mostly – until he looks back up and Dean is still there. "How- what-"

"Beats the hell out of me," Dean says, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "Last I remember, I was getting drunk at a bar with this smoking hottie, and then nothing… and then I woke up here."

He stands up and walks over to Sam. "Hold on, I think I've got this ghost thing figured out." After a few seconds, his image solidifies until Sam can't see the wall through him, and when he hugs Sam, it feels real. Sam clenches his hands in Dean's shirt, feeling the plaid fabric bunch up under his fingers, smooth and mostly like flannel, but not quite.

"Why here?" Sam asks. (He doesn't ask _"Why me?"_ because he knows if _he_ died, he'd want to see Dean one last time. Instead, he hugs Dean as tightly as he dares, breathing in the faint smell of cologne and something a little like ozone.)

Dean shrugs without letting go. "Apparently the universe thought your gigantor ass needed some taking care of. Speaking of which…" He reaches up and smacks the back of Sam's head. It's lighter than he's expecting, but it still stings. "Why the hell was I able to get in here so easily? I know dad and I taught you better than that."

Sam ducks his head, rubbing at the spot that Dean hit. "My roommate started worrying that I was in some kind of a cult."

Dean pulls back and looks at Sam. "So? What's he gonna do, exactly? Just tell him you're one of those pagans and claim religious persecution if he starts any shit."

Sam rolls his eyes. "There's no religion that believes in sprinkling salt in front of the windows and doors, Dean."

"Yeah? Well, there should be," he says. "I don't know, make something up – you're the genius, remember? And don't give me any crap about how it doesn't matter because it's Stanford, and safe, because hello, living – unliving – _whatever_ proof standing right here in front of you."

Dean's figure wavers for a second, becoming translucent, and Sam's hand passes through him.

"Whoa there, Sammy." Dean backs up. "That was weird… all _tingly_ 'n shit _._ Warn a guy, wouldja? Or at least buy me a drink first."

Sam's breath catches then, because this is _Dean_ , but Dean is– he's joking and laughing, like it's no big deal, but Sam's hand just passed right through him and his brother is–

"Sammy – hey, Sam –" Dean looks down at himself and swears, and then his body solidifies once more. "Okay, got a little freaky for a second there, but hey, see, it's all good, right?"

Sam shakes his head. "No, Dean, it's not all good." He sits on the edge of his bed, head swimming, then just kind of collapses in a slow slide down onto the ground, back against the mattress, knees bent in front of him. He's sitting on his clothing, getting them all wrinkled and oh _god_ he was doing laundry like nothing was wrong and his brother was already. _Don't hyperventilate, but–_ "Dean, we gotta find your body, oh god, does Dad know? Was he with you? Is he–"

Dean shakes his head. "Slow your roll, Sam, you're making me dizzy."

Sam can do that. Sam can slow his roll. He breathes in, breathes out, thinks, _Dean died in a plaid shirt and those godawful jeans he should have buried two years ago, the ones with the shredded thigh that almost lets you look all the way–_

Dean snaps his fingers. "Eyes on me kid."

Sam looks up.

"Now. Everything you just said we gotta do? Forget about it." Sam opens his mouth to object, but Dean just says, "No!" and holds up his hand, smiling when Sam shuts his mouth obediently.

"God, I've missed that pissy look of yours," Dean says. He stares at Sam for a minute, a faint smile on his lips, like he can't believe what he's seeing. Then he shakes it off and keeps going. "What we gotta do is celebrate Christmas. Because yeah, this sucks, ain't no two ways about it, but at least I got this shot to spend time with you."

He squats down next to Sam on the floor. "So tomorrow you're going to call in sick to work, and then we're going to watch those shitty Christmas movies you pretend to hate and drink hot chocolate and do any other stupid holiday thing you want to do, and you're going to put up with it because _I'm_ the dead guy here, so what I want, goes. _Okay?_ "

Sam smiles wanly. "Okay."

"Okay," Dean says, one hand on Sam's shoulder. "Now get up off the floor so you can get some sleep, because I don't think I'm Swayze enough yet to pull your heavy ass off the ground."

"You're the dead guy," Sam says, trying to fake a cheerful attitude as he pushes himself back onto the mattress, but the words are ashes in his mouth.

"Damn straight I am," Dean says. "But if you don't start taking better care of yourself, they're going to have trouble telling us apart, so sleep already, you're making me tired just looking at you." He smiles, and that all-too-familiar warmth rushes through Sam as Dean says, "I promise, I'll still be here when you wake up."

Suddenly aware that there's only a robe between them, Sam awkwardly digs through the laundry underneath him for a pair of pajama pants. He finds a pair that's still pleasingly warm from the dryer and shimmies them up under his robe, trying not to blush.

"Weird time to get modest, Sammy, it's not like you weren't accidentally flashing me under that robe but okay," Dean says, and Sam steadfastly ignores the hot flush that goes up his spine at that thought in favor of making his bed.

Once it's made, he flips back the covers and then pauses, his back to his brother, because he doesn't know how to ask for what he wants. "Dean-" he starts. "I know you don't, um, probably _need_ to–" and it's stupid, he thinks, because the other bed is _right there_ – "but would you… like when we were kids? I just…"

"Yeah, yeah, Samantha," Dean says, and he climbs into the bed and waits for Sam to climb in next to him. "I missed you too."

Sam sets his alarm, turns off the light, and rolls onto his side, and the ghost of his big brother wraps around him and holds him tight.

* * *

Sam doesn't call in sick to work. Dean's – he's around, Sam's sure, but he's not _there_ -there when Sam wakes up. (Do ghosts need to sleep? Dean's been tossing around some pretty powerful mojo for being a ghost, which is, huh, strange and bears further thought since Sam's pretty sure most ghosts aren't supposed to be able to hug you, but that's besides the point.)

He's pretty sure Dean was actually there last night, and that it wasn't just some kind of psychotic break. But he also feels too guilty to cut out on his gift-wrap team on the last shopping day before Christmas, so he shows up dutifully and folds and cuts and tapes for all the panicked last-minute shoppers. On his break, he calls Pastor Jim and leaves a voicemail asking whether he's heard from Dean or his father lately, and frets when Jim doesn't call him back. Then he calls Josh and Sharon and tells them that he woke up feeling terrible and the campus clinic says he's got the flu and it's still at the contagious stage, which means he's off work for the next six days at least. He feels vaguely guilty for potentially leaving Lizzie in the weeds, but hopefully the number of drunks on Christmas Eve won't be too bad.

The best part about not skipping out on the department store job, though, is walking out with his last paycheck in hand. His first instinct is to buy Dean a present, but somehow porn mags and alcohol – Dean's traditional gifts since Sam turned 16 – don't seem that useful for a ghost. (He's always resented that particular part of their tradition, anyway, Dean getting drunk and spending all his attention on inanimate pictures that can't love him back when there are better things that are… when there are better things.)

Sam buys a bottle of rum anyway, not a big one, just like half of a fifth, since he's the only one who'll be drinking. Then he stops by Fry's and splurges on a couple of holiday movies: _Christmas Evil_ , _Gremlins_ , and of course _Lethal Weapon_. Sure, like Dean pointed out, Sam's got a soft spot for stuff like _White Christmas_ and _Miracle on 34 th Street_ and all that. (But not _It's a Wonderful Life_ , never that movie, because Sam's always known he'll never be George Bailey with a childhood sweetheart and kids and a town full of friends. Dean's the one who deserves to be George; at best, Sam's the younger brother, the one who George rightfully resents for leaving.) But even though Dean said they'd watch all the shitty movies Sam likes, he picks the action and horror movies because he wants Dean to enjoy the night, too, and after this year it's going to hurt too much to watch them for a very long time.

Sometimes he wonders if Dean would have loved normal Christmas movies if things had been different, if their chance of normal hadn't burned up on the ceiling of Sam's nursery. But thinking about that reminds him that Dean's a– that Dean's never going to get the chance to have any of those, and Sam can't handle thinking about that tonight, so he locks it away in the box in his mind where he hides all the other dark thoughts and urges that can't have any place in his life. (It's not the only thought about Dean in there, even if it is the most bleak.)

Weirdly, the Walgreens at the bus stop has pints of eggnog for sale, so he grabs a few of those to go with the rum, along with a half-price package of Christmas cookies, some milk and butter, and a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. And then he's out of excuses not to see if Dean is still there, and still a ghost. As long as he doesn't go home, Dean's like some Schrödinger's Cat, alive and dead at the same time until he opens the box, right?

But what if he doesn't open the box, and Dean just vanishes, and he never sees him again? What if he only has so much ghost-juice before he's gone? In a flash, Sam's reticence turns to panic and he all but runs the last few blocks home, forgoing the elevators in favor of taking the stairs two and three at a time. He's red-faced and out of breath when he reaches his room, fumbling in his pocket for his keys only to have the door flung open in his face.

"About time, Sammy," Dean says, flickering a few times before becoming solid. "I was beginning to think you'd pulled another runner on me."

Sam holds up his purchases triumphantly. "No, I just stopped to get a few things for the evening." He pushes his textbooks out of the way and empties the bags onto his desk, angling his body to keep Dean in his sight. "Speaking of runners," he says, trying to sound casual, "where'd you go this morning? I couldn't find you anywhere."

Dean frowns. "I dunno?" He looks around, a little disturbed. "I think maybe I just used up all my juice and had to recharge. It's like, one minute I'm watching you sleep and the next it's noon and you're gone. A little weird, but hey," he chuckles, "no worse than getting blackout drunk, am I right?"

Sam chooses to pull his hot pot down from the top of his shelves instead of answering. He's never been blackout drunk, so he has nothing to compare it to. Then he looks at Dean, and back to the rum Dean's currently inspecting, and thinks there's always a first time for everything, and celebrating Christmas with your dead brother is looking like a really good time for first times. _Just not the first times he'd always wanted._

"Booze and KD, Sammy? You sure know the way to a girl's heart. Just like old times, eh?" Dean moves over to the counter and picks up the box of macaroni and cheese. His hand goes through it on the first try, then solidifies on the second, flipping it over to look at the directions. "Man, I could make this thing in my sleep. Guess you really were missing me, huh?"

Sam tries to take it out of his hand. "Don't waste your energy, Dean–"

But Dean just shoulders him aside with a look and a gruff, "Big brother duties, Sammy. Don't make me put you in time out." And it feels so solid, and so _real_ , that Sam gives in and sits down, chin in his hands as he watches Dean measure and pour and stir, like he did so many times throughout their childhood. (And wasn't this what he was hoping for when he bought it to begin with?)

Sam mainly remembers sitting at the table while Dean cooked at the stove, but Dean swears that their dad gave them a hot pot originally, back at the beginning when John didn't dare stay in any spot too long. Hotel rooms didn't come with kitchens, Dean says, so John had a toaster oven and a hot pot and that's what they used when he was gone until they got old enough to both be in school and it looked like the yellow-eyed man wasn't following on their heels.

Dean's been cooking macaroni and cheese for Sam for the better part of sixteen years.

_Dean's never going to- he's not- he's-_

"Stop thinking so hard and eat your dinner," Dean says, dropping a bowl full of cheesy pasta in front of him. The plastic dish wobbles a little when it hits the table, proof that Dean still doesn't have perfect control over his ability to manipulate solid objects.

He can still cook a mean Kraft Dinner, though.

Halfway through the meal, he figures it out. "The hot chocolate, and the marshmallows – it was you, wasn't it!"

Dean smirks. "You bet your ass it was. I got bored hanging around watching you shove stuff on shelves, so I started playing around to see what I could really do. Turns out, I can do a lot."

"You ass!" Sam swallows down a forkful of cheesy goodness and grins back at him. "I thought I was going crazy, the way everything kept falling off the shelves."

Dean smiles back unrepentantly. "Hey, I coulda started with the glasses and plates over in the kitchen section. You should be grateful I'm not that much of a dick."

"Grateful?" Sam swats Dean's shoulder, and it's almost easy to believe he's not a ghost, except that lower down, he can see the chair through Dean's legs. It's like Sam is a magnet, drawing all of Dean's solidness close to him. The farther away the parts of him are, the less _there_ that they are. But it's okay. Dean's here. That's what matters. "Why the fuck should I be grateful? I don't work in housewares. If you make a mess there, I don't have to care about it. But no, you had to make my job harder!" He laughs. "I was cleaning up after you for like an hour!"

"All the more reason for you to get those salt lines down," Dean says smugly. "Besides, if I'd been somewhere more interesting, I wouldn't have gotten bored and wandered back to campus to look around. You wouldn't believe what some of the girls in your dorm have in their drawers, Sammy!"

Sam pushes the bowl away after he finishes scraping the sides of it clean, aware that he's blushing a little. "And I don't want to know, either." Because if Dean looked in _their_ drawers, then he probably also–

Dean keeps going like the complete and total asshole he is. "Gotta tell ya, I wouldn't have believed what _you_ have in your drawer if I hadn't seen it, either!"

"Dean!" Sam says, mortified.

His brother cackles and elbows him in the side. "I guess college really is the place for experimentation!" But his brother still has some small amount of mercy left, because he doesn't mention anything more about the 7" blue dildo, lube and rechargeable prostate massager that are hopefully still safely tucked in the back of Sam's nightstand.

Dean ribs him all the way through cleaning up after cooking and getting Sam's computer set up for the movies. There's no malice or condemnation in it, though. If anything, Dean seems a little – proud? – of Sam for knowing what he likes. By the time Sam's in his PJs and they're squished together on Sam's twin bed with _Gremlins_ on, he's almost stopped wanting to sink into the floorboards and disappear.

* * *

Sam passes out half-way through _Christmas Evil_ , only surfacing groggily about a half-hour after Dean's swapped it out for _Lethal Weapon_. He grumbles at Dean a little for not waking him up at the end of the movie when the crazy toymaker axe-murderer flies up into the sky to become Santa, which is without question the best part of the movie. Dean says he looked like he needed the sleep more than the movie. Which is… thoughtful, actually.

Of course, Dean immediately ruins the effect a few minutes later by mocking Sam mercilessly after he sleepily asks whether he's missed the toilet bomb scene. In Sam's defense, all the _Lethal Weapon_ movies look alike, and watching Danny Glover try not to panic on the john is the best scene in the whole trilogy.

Apparently Dean also took time to mix up the rum and eggnog while Sam was out. It's strong – too strong, really, but Sam's awake again and refreshed by his nap, so it's not like he's going to pass out from a few glasses. College has given him a bigger tolerance for booze than Dean knows, but he lets his eyes bug out a little and coughs, just to see Dean smile.

"Good?" he asks, a sparkle in his eyes.

"Yeah, it's good," Sam croaks out.

By the time Murtaugh mutters, "I'm too old for this," Sam is warm and toasty and well on his way to being toasted. Sam scours Steve's side of the room for more movies, which is how they end up watching _The Breakfast Club_. Dean says he's never seen it before – too chick flick and not enough explosions – but Sam can see him mouthing along with Bender's lines all the same. It's funny at first, but then Bender says, "I could disappear forever, and it wouldn't make any difference. I might as well not even exist at this school, remember?" and it isn't funny anymore.

He looks at Dean, trying to preserve every detail about his features. Dean looks at him and raises an eyebrow. "What? I got something on my face?"

Sam cocks his head. "Where was dad?" He's drunk, but the words come out crisp and clear.

It's obviously not the question Dean's expecting. "What do you mean?"

"All those speeches of how it was too dangerous for me out here on my own, and he just lets you go hunt? _He was supposed to keep you safe._ "

"It's not his fault." Dean looks down, won't meet Sam's eyes. "He had a lead he needed to follow up on. It was an easy hunt – I told him I'd catch up to him."

He's lying. Sam says as much, pulls the stupid angry little brother card and _pushes_ until Dean looks up and spits out, "We haven't been hunting together for months, Sam. I earned my stripes – did good enough that Dad thought we could do more good, take more jobs, if we split up."

And Dean looks… lost. He fades a little bit, like his ability to manifest is maybe connected to his confidence in himself.

_He was the good son,_ Sam thinks angrily. He stayed behind like their dad wanted, and for what? He doesn't know what he did wrong, Sam realizes, and then corrects it immediately: _He doesn't know that he did nothing wrong._ Like Dean thinks that if he'd only been able to be better, their dad wouldn't have left him behind. He regrets bringing it up – here he is, once again driving a wedge between his family, and what is there to say in the end? He and Dean both love their father, and their father loves them. It's just never been enough.

"I wanted you here," Sam says quietly, needing to let Dean know he's loved. Needed. "I would have taken classes, you could have gotten a job, maybe even still hunt in our free time." He wanted more than that, but Dean doesn't need to know about it.

Dean smirks. It's a weak shadow of the bright one he tossed his way a little while ago, but Sam will take it. "You know, I almost thought about it?" He grins, and it's a little more solid. "Didn't want to make you fight for all those college girls, though." The grin broadens, and he's almost all the way opaque again. "'Course, if I'd known about the stuff in your drawer, I guess it would have been okay. I can't believe you never brought any guy home."

Sam snorts, letting himself lean back against Dean's solidness. "We never stayed in any place long enough to find out who liked guys and who didn't. Who was I gonna bring home?" It's not the _real_ answer, but it's _an_ answer.

Dean pours more eggnog into Sam's glass. If anything, the rum is even more concentrated in this one. Unrepentant, he pats Sam on the back as the alcohol makes him cough. And just when Sam thinks he's got it under control, he sputters and nearly chokes _again_ when Dean says, "Dad won't care, you know that, right? You'll get, like, twice the safe-sex talk, but that's it."

"Yeah, right, sure." The idea of telling John anything about his sex life makes Sam chuckle. He's drunk, so it comes out half-chuckle, half-giggle and anything but the manly laugh he'd like it to be. "Like you'd know anything about that."

Dean pauses while Sam takes a drink, then says nonchalantly, "I only know what he did when I told him I swing both ways."

Years from now, if anyone asks him about this moment, Sam will smile a little mysteriously and say that he sipped his drink and asked Dean to elucidate. What really happens is, Sam shoots eggnog through his nose and spends the next few minutes crying and coughing while his sinuses feel like they're on fire, and Dean can't stop laughing because he is a heartless dick.

By the time Sam staggers back from washing his face in the bathroom down the hall, he's come to a few realizations: a) he's more sober than he wants to be; b) just because Dean's bi and Sam's pretty sure he's bi, it doesn't change anything, so Sam should stop thinking it does; and c) he needs more alcohol to process _any_ of this.

The alcohol is the easiest thing to fix; the eggnog's almost gone, but the rum's still there. Even better, it turns out that they're on the same wavelength because there's now a pile of chilled and slightly dented Coke cans from the soda machine in the lounge to go with the rum. ("Ghost powers," Dean grins, wiggling his fingers. "Turns out I can just jam my fingers in there and flip the switch and bam, instant Coke!")

Sam mixes himself a drink and sits down at his desk. "You know," he says, carefully not looking at anything in particular, "I nearly threw in the towel after I first got here. If Dad hadn't told me to stay gone… I'd only been here three weeks and I missed you and Dad so much, and I thought, what the hell have I done. But there was no place to go, so I just stayed, and it got better."

"I didn't talk to Dad for almost a week after he threw you out," Dean admits. He slumps down, elbows resting on his knees. "I think the real reason he and I split up is that it's just not the same without you there, and we both knew it."

"Not the same doesn't mean it wasn't for the best," Sam says defensively. "How many nights ended up with you ducking out to a bar to avoid me and Dad fighting?" _How many times was Dad going to give me that look, like he knew something was wrong inside me? The look that said he was relieved when you chose the bar over me?_

"It wasn't for the best," Dean says sharply. "You're my brother, Sam, there ain't never gonna be a time when I don't want you around."

"There might have been," Sam says quietly. He fidgets with the cup before him, sipping at it slowly and staring at the ground, the computer – anywhere but his brother. "I was going crazy before I left. Our lives, everything had been so weird for so long, I couldn't tell where the lines are supposed to be, you know, what's _normal_ , what's not. I had to make up so many lies, so many excuses for so long – I came to Stanford so I could relearn what 'normal' and 'safe' are supposed to be. I needed to ground myself, or I was just going to ruin everything."

Dean shifted forward on the bed until their knees were touching. "I don't know, man. It's hard to see how anything could be worse than breaking up the family."

Sam lets himself lean into the touch and resolutely doesn't read anything into it. After a moment, he presses his knee back against Dean's and shrugs. "Some things just are."

* * *

By 3 am, the movies are long over and so's the booze, and the conversation has turned quiet and contemplative. Whenever Sam tries to talk about what happens next, Dean deflects him, and Sam lets himself be deflected. Neither really wants the night to end, which is how they end up sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on Sam's bed, talking about nothing, both unwilling to stop.

At one point, Dean produces a scrunched-up bundle of pink silk and dangles it in front of Sam ("I told you girls have the best stuff, Sammy. Look what else I found in their drawers!"). And Sam blushes down to his roots, momentarily thinking Dean is daring him to wear the panties and even contemplating the madness of doing so. But then Dean unrolls the cloth and reveal the little baggie full of green leaves wrapped up inside, and Sam is so busy trying to pretend that he wasn't thinking about stripping down in front of Dean and modeling the scrap of silk that he's agreed to smoke up before he realizes it.

It's his first time smoking pot, so he's a fucking wreck at it. It takes him several tries under Dean's tutelage to roll an acceptable joint, and when he finally lights up and inhales, the smoke immediately fills his sinuses, stinging and burning.

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean laughs, thumping Sam on the back as he coughs. "Only you could go to college and come out as inexperienced as you went into it." He drops his arm around Sam's shoulders and leans in, trying to coach Sam through the next attempt – "okay, now use your cheeks and suck in, y'know, inhale, but don't swallow the smoke – I said _don't_ swallow, Sammy, pay attention, you want to just hold it there and then take a deep breath through your nose to cut down on the smoke – your _nose_ , Sammy, not your mouth–" It doesn't go so well, not the least of which is because Dean is talking about sucking and swallowing and how is Sam supposed to concentrate?

About the time that Sam is ready to give up and accept that he is a failure at drugs, Dean tilts his head at the cigarette and squints his eyes, and says, "Huh, I wonder." He holds the joint up to his own lips and does… something… and his outline goes all smokey, and then he breathes it out and the smoke fills the room.

He grins and says, "Cool." And then he looks at Sam and squeezes his arm, pulling Sam in closer as he says, "C'mere. Apparently I gotta do everything for ya."

And Sam has read porn about this – Sam has read a _lot_ of porn about this, and he is one-hundred-percent okay with what he knows is going to happen next. It's just like his fantasies, Dean pulls in more of the smoke until his outline is hazy, and then leans down, his face hovering over Sam's while he looks at him searchingly for what, permission? Sam's not sure, so he just nods, his eyes firmly locked onto Dean's, and then Dean leans in.

His lips touch Sam's, which fall apart of their own volition.

And Sam breathes Dean in.

The smoke doesn't burn this time. It's sweet and herbal, with that little crackle of ozone that happens whenever Dean is near. He holds the smoke in for a moment, then breathes it back into Dean, breathing _himself_ into Dean, and–

_Whoa._

Dean takes another hit and Sam exhales, waiting for Dean, waiting to inhale life into him. They pass the smoke back and forth this time until Sam is light-headed and has to break off. He falls backward onto his bed, enjoying the warmth that is beginning to run through him, and doesn't even freak when Dean follows him down with another shot to share. Shotgunning. Shots, guns, Dean, Sam thinks, free-associating and letting his mind go blank as Dean leans down like Sam is his lover, one hand on each side of his head, his body half-pressed on top of Sam as their lips meet and Dean breathes more smoke, more of himself, into Sam.

Sam's arms come up as Dean solidifies above him, and he's so busy marveling at the feel of his arms around Dean's back – it feels exactly like he's always dreamed it would – that it actually takes him a few minutes to realize the smoke is gone and they're just kissing now, the breath passing between them clear and slightly rum-scented.

Dean breaks off the kiss for a moment to look down at Sam, silently asking if this is okay. And about six hours ago Sam would have panicked and over-thought it, but between the rum and the pot and the _(don't think about it)_ fact that there won't be repercussions tomorrow because _Dean is–_

Sam looks up at Dean and smiles, and leans up to continue the kiss. A part of his brain worries whether his brother is really as into this as it seems or if he's just trying to give Sam a gift to remember him by, but Sam shoves that thought far down. Thanks to the pot, his head feels light and his limbs feel clumsy, but the anxiety is gone, the anxiety that's tinted every guilty erection Sam has had because of his brother since he turned 13 and woke up from his first wet dream about him.

If this is what he gets of Dean – if this is the last thing he'll ever get from Dean – then he'll take it.

Sam lets his arms drift downward as Dean keeps kissing him, running them over his chest as he's always wanted to. He goes to unbutton Dean's shirt, but the fabric simply slips open under his fingertips, and the t-shirt he's expecting to find just… isn't there. He can feel a light dusting of hair across Dean's pecs, diminishing into thin wispy tufts around his nipples. When he runs his fingers across the nipple itself, Dean bucks forward, pressing his hips into Sam's, and Sam's legs fall open, knees bending to make room for his brother between them. He can feel Dean's cock, large and hard against him, and he whimpers.

Dean, dickhead that he is, pulls back at that and just smirks. "Something you wanna share with the class, Sammy?" Sam doesn't respond, though, instead wrapping his legs around Dean and flipping them so he's underneath and Sam's perched on top of his hips. Sam's dreamed about this position ever since he was 16, when Dean had some friends over and they all got wasted, and he and Mandy got busy in their bedroom because he thought Sam was so drunk he'd passed out. (Which he had, until the moaning and giggles woke him up and gave him a full view via the mirror over the desk of Amanda's _in flagrante_ ass riding his older brother. And if his mind substituted _Sam_ every time Dean drunkenly moaned her name, no one had to know but Sam.)

Dean's eyes darken. He reaches up and grabs Sam's hair, pulling him down for another smoldering kiss as other hand cups Sam's ass, holding him securely in place as he ruts up against him. Even though Sam has the upper hand, he's never felt more out of control, content to let Dean set the pace as he rocks them up and down. Dean's jeans feel rough and real beneath his hips, the zipper grinding against his perineum in the best possible way.

Dean slides his lips down to Sam's neck and his hand up over Sam's hips to the waistband of his pajama bottoms. Then his fingers slide inside, pulling the elastic down until it's folded under Sam, exposing his ass to the air. His cock is still trapped in front, the fabric damp against him. He's leaking and wet for Dean, pre-cum dripping out continuously. Everywhere Dean touches feels like it's on fire, like if he looked down he'd see glowing trails across his skin.

When Dean spreads Sam's cheeks and strokes two fingers directly across his hole, it's too much. He comes with a gasp, pressing his lips softly against Dean's neck, and freezes there, panting softly as the tremors run through him. Dean holds him through it, lips and teeth worrying against his neck as his fingers continue to rub encouraging little circles around his hole, dipping the tips in ever so slightly as Sam ruts against his rock-hard cock.

Once Sam finally stills, panting and limp, Dean pulls his fingers away. A moment later, they return, moist and slick with lube. "Open up for me, Sammy," he whispers, pressing them up and in, and Sam is helpless to do anything but comply, enjoying the burn as he – _finally_ – welcomes Dean inside himself.

Dean takes his time fingering Sam, careful to avoid his prostate while he recovers. It doesn't take long – he's not even twenty yet, and still more experienced with his own hands than anyone else's, and soon he's back to whimpering in Dean's ear, begging him to continue. "'m ready, Dean, please, please, I'm ready."

" _You're_ ready now, huh?" Dean smirks. "I've been ready for years." Then he lets go of Sam's hair and wraps his arm under Sam's leg, flipping them. Sometime in the maneuver, Sam realizes that Dean's jeans have melted away, and it's just skin against skin.

Dean presses Sam's legs up until they're folded in half and pressed against his chest, using his other hand to pull his pajamas free of his legs. He holds Sam's ankles there, pinning him to the bed as he lines himself up and slides home, not stopping until he's buried as deeply in Sam as he can go.

Sam forgets to breathe as Dean breaches him, the slight pain easily eclipsed by the momentous feeling of _yes_ and _finally_ and _mine_ as they are connected as intimately as they possibly can be. He can feel Dean trembling, holding himself in check as he waits for Sam to adjust. It's a match for the trembling in his own thighs, held taut and spread apart in Dean's sure hands. He breathes through the ache in his muscles, trying to sear every sensation into his memory.

After a few seconds, Sam takes a long breath and exhales, one hand shakily coming up to caress Dean's face. He smiles up at his big brother, the sun his universe has always revolved around, and says cheekily, "Took you long enough."

"Oh yeah?" Dean drops his grip on Sam's legs, pushing them wider apart and himself impossibly even deeper in. Then he does – _something_ – with his hips that makes Sam gasp, and says smugly, "Well, I better make up for lost time then." And Sam's universe explodes into stars.

Dean fucks exactly like Sam dreamed he would, exactly the way he fantasized about after countless stolen glimpses throughout their teen years in hotel rooms and houses with thin walls. He fucks like he drives, utterly in control at all times and completely aware of how to push whatever is under him – hard and fast and demanding, mixed with kissing and tenderness when Sam least expects them. He fucks like tomorrow doesn't matter, like this isn't the only chance they'll have, like he's actually _there,_ in the flesh…

Dean thrusts in, then, jarring him from his melancholic thoughts with a smirk and a "Back with me?" And Sam remembers what's important, because tomorrow doesn't matter, not while they have tonight.

* * *

By the time they finally collapse to the bed, sweaty and sated and wrung dry, the sun is shining through Sam's window. He can see it shining _through_ Dean, which should alarm him, but he's so tired, and Dean still feels solid above him, and tomorrow doesn't matter. It _doesn't_.

It does.

* * *

Dean is gone when Sam wakes up, just like Sam expected – _feared_ – knew he would be. Because that's what happens to ghosts – they take care of whatever they left unfinished and then move on, and whatever it was Dean needed to do, it's clearly done. And that's good, right?

It's good.

He gathers up his pajamas and goes down the hall to hit the head, ass aching in the best possible way, a tangible reminder that the last night wasn’t just a very satisfying hallucination of an overworked, underslept mind. When he returns, he moves around the room like a zombie, picking up dishes and putting away the DVDs. He adds the movies he bought to Steve's collection, then rethinks because _Dean_ and goes to squirrel them away in the back of his closet, back by the gun and the knife he’s not supposed to have either. Weapons of his own destruction. Someday, he'll watch them again. _Someday_ , but not –

"So hey," Dean says behind him, interrupting Sam's epic bout of self-pity, "I think I'm doing this ghost thing wrong, 'cause I'm still here."

Sam jumps. He _jumps_ , hands flailing in surprise, and the DVDs go flying, clattering down to the bottom of the floor. And Dean has the gall to _laugh–_

"You motherfucker!" Sam whirls around, laughing and there's Dean, still slightly translucent but _here_ and that's all that matters. Sam throws himself forward and Dean catches him, kisses him and spins him around.

"Sam, you shoulda seen your face, oh my god." He puts Sam down on the ground, looking more serious. "Yeah. So… the whole walk-into-the-light thing? Not so much. Like I was there with you, and then I wasn't, I mean, I think I wasn't, I lost a couple hours there somewhere, but then I was just… back again."

Sam hugs him tightly and refuses to let go. He should be worried about Dean, should already be busy trying to figure out what is keeping him here, but he just can't. And how fucked is it that he's a little sad that it wasn't _him_ –

"And no," Dean says, "what happened last night wasn't me checking things off any list, so get that out of your brain. I just missed you, and when I found myself here, I thought great, here's my chance to be your big brother one more time."

He shrugs. "But then I saw you and it was like everything I'd been trying to repress for years was right there on the surface. And like, I could tell somehow that you felt the same, and I wondered why the hell we'd made such a big deal out of it." He presses his body close to Sam's, playfully grinding their crotches together. "I figured all I had to do then was Swayze my way into getting you to see me, but you had to go be all angsty, clueless virgin on me. Dinner, movies, drinks – I never worked as hard to get any girl in bed as you."

Sam's body heats up as Dean's cock hardens, and he's sore but not so sore to prevent another go-around, but there's something _off_ about what Dean said. Something he hasn't been thinking about this whole time.

Sam stiffens in Dean's arms. "Dean," he says slowly, "are you _sure_ you've been telling me the truth?" He pulls away from Dean and sits down at his desk, opening his laptop and turning it on.

"Don't go getting all snippy at me," Dean says. "You know there's never gonna be another girl in my life besides you."

Sam ignores the implied insult – he's resigned himself to more of them; they might be lovers now, but they were brothers first.

After a moment, Dean's expression grows serious. "Swear to dad, Sam, everything I've said has been the truth, other'n that part about you being a girl. What are you thinking?"

"You said you went all Swayze, Dean, but that movie's a lie, remember?" He's got Mozilla open and is typing furiously, skimming over link after link. "Ghosts fuck with electricity, but you don't. Ghosts make everything cold, but other than that one night at Target, you don't do that, either. You don't fuzz in and out, either. And, you can _touch me_ , Dean."

Dean waggles his eyebrows at him. "In all the naughty places, too."

Sam smiles, and keeps going. "Think, Dean. Did Dad ever tell you about _any_ ghost that could do all that?" Dean looks thoughtful.

Sam's on a roll now, his energy not just returned but amplified. He stands up and grabs a canister of Morton's salt from his cabinet, pouring it around Dean – "Hey!" – and closing the circle. "Go ahead, Dean. Cross it." Dean waves his hand over it, gingerly at first like he's expecting it to hurt, and then gleefully, scattering the grains of salt as he scuffs through it. "See?" Sam says. "I bet if I had iron, it wouldn't affect you either. Which means…"

Dean laughs, surprised and delighted and bemused all at once. "Which means I'm _not_ a ghost."

"Exactly!" Sam says, returning to the computer. "So what _are_ you?"

Dean shrugs, but he's grinning. "Beats me. Bad-ass psychic would be kinda cool. I could go all _The Fury_ or _Firestarter_ on you."

Sam looks back at him flatly. "Those are both horror movies, Dean."

"Yeah, well, it's that or a witch," Dean says, "and I hate witches."

"What about Luke Skywalker?" Sam asks without looking up from his search. "Use the force, Luke." Dean considers this for a moment. "Well, that kiss between him and Leia _was_ pretty hot, so…" And Sam grits his teeth. "Lucas hadn't decided about them being siblings, yet."

Whatever incest-related comeback Dean would have inevitably made (and Sam can tell he'll be hearing a lot of them in his future) gets interrupted when Sam's phone rings.

_Pastor Jim_ , the caller ID tells him.

"Sam, I got your message–" Pastor Jim says when he answers the phone, just as Sam says, "Did you find him?" There's a pause, and then Jim says, guardedly, "Yes, and he’s alive, but Sam… it's not good."

The good mood washes out of him as he sits up straight. "What do you mean?"

"How fast can you get to Lewiston, Idaho?" Jim asks in response.

"Are we talking catch-the-bus fast or hotwire-a-car fast?" He looks over at Dean, who looks concerned, but not unduly so. It's not everyday you find out you're not dead, after all. Everything else probably seems like gravy compared to that.

"Your brother's in the hospital, Sam," Jim says. "He's dying."

The hunter probably takes Sam's laughter for hysteria, not relief, but Sam doesn't care. "Jim," he says, chuckling, "I'm pretty sure I can guarantee that's the one thing he's _not_ doing.”

* * *

With Sam's help, Pastor Jim gets a list of likely places to search for Dean's hotel room and the Impala, because even if Dean doesn't remember anything, Sam still knows how his brother thinks.

There's no rental car agencies open on Christmas, so after that Dean helps Sam pick out a car that's obviously been sitting for a few days and walks him through the hotwiring procedure. Once they're on the road it's _almost_ like old times, except for once, Sam gets to drive because Dean's still a little translucent.

Halfway to Idaho, Sam has to pull over when Jim calls with even more good news – he's found both the Impala _and_ Dean's hotel room, and he knows what happened. Dean was investigating a rash of suspicious lingering illnesses leading to comas and then death, some kind of soul-sucker called a maita that likes to feed on its victims slowly, eating away at the soul little by little over a couple of days. It must have gotten the drop on Dean, because he was found unresponsive in the very hospital that's currently treating him… which means the hospital is most likely the monster's feeding grounds. By all rights, Dean should be dead by now.

(Sam's got some theories on why that didn't happen, about how maybe his claim on Dean's soul is stronger than anything else that would try to steal it, but he's not about to tell Dean that. Even though they're both on the same page now about being more than brothers, he knows that Dean's not above teasing him unmercifully for having a chick-flick moment.)

"Soulfucking," Dean says smugly, because of course he does. "You've had my soul in you. How does that make you feel?" How it makes Sam feel is likely to get him arrested by a cop for having sex in the back of a Honda civic, so Sam wisely just rolls his eyes and doesn't answer.

They keep driving after that, the mood considerably lighter. Sam and Pastor Jim will have a hunt to finish when they get there, and they'll have to figure out if Dean's soul will just go back in of its own volition, or if they'll have to do some kind of ritual. But they _will_ figure it out, that and what comes afterwards.

They'll figure it all out, together.

The radio craps out right after they cross into Idaho, which sucks primarily because Dean won't stop grumbling about it, but that's okay, too. After one too many complaints, Sam tosses the only thing he has on him at Dean – the copy of _Crush_ that he gave up reading in the laundry room what feels like a lifetime ago.

"Make yourself useful," he says. "If I have to drive your not-a-ghost soulfucking ass to the middle of nowhere, Idaho, the least you can do is catch me up on my reading."

Surprisingly, Dean does.

This time, Siken’s _Litany_ doesn't hurt to hear, not in Dean's hands and Dean's voice, and when he finishes the poem it's transformed from pain and self-hatred. _"We clutch our bellies and roll on the floor…"_ Dean reads. _"When I say this, it should mean laughter, not poison. I want more applesauce. I want more seats reserved for heroes. Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you. Quit milling around the yard and come inside."_

Sometimes what hurts the most is also what saves you, Sam thinks, looking at him and Dean in a stolen car, en route to a hunt – all the things he thought he’d left behind. The man he’d thought had left _him_ behind.

_Sometimes you just have to keep going to get to where you’re supposed to be._

For the next hour, Sam drives, and Dean reads him poetry, and his only complaint is, "This might be the gayest thing you've ever asked me to do, Sam, and that's including you begging me so pretty last night to fuck you. You see what you do to me? One night and you've got me reading you _poetry_."

But he doesn't stop.

He saves the longest poem, "You are Jeff," for last, and it's long enough that Sam's actually parking at St. Joseph's Hospital before Dean's at the last section. Sam's willing to stop there, anxious to see Dean in the flesh and hunt down whatever's hurt him, but it's Dean who stops him and keeps reading. "No, we're almost done, Sam, listen–

_"You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you've done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you're tired. You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you don't even have a name for."_

He smiles at Sam and there's nothing but joy and sunshine and love behind it. "Did you hear that?" he asks. "That guy was writing about _us_."

And if Sam nearly stabs himself with the stick shift throwing himself across the seat to kiss Dean, well, who could blame him? He's in a car with a beautiful boy, a boy who is _not_ dead and in fact, like Tiny Tim, is going to be _just fine,_ and apparently there is, too, such a thing as a happy Christmas, even when you're a Winchester.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know, Richard Siken didn't publish _Crush_ until 2005, but shhhhh.... We're just gonna pretend it came out a few years earlier. It's Christmas. I won't tell if you won't.
> 
> PS: A tiny coda somehow showed up in the comments below, so don't miss it!


End file.
